The G-Team in MEXICO CONTRACT
by ShinagamiWing
Summary: After the end of their adventures as MS pilots, the guys take up whole new occupations- as freelance mercenaries. Together, these highly-trained killers make up the G-Team... four superskilled soldiers of fortune who fight on a global battlefeild. Contain


Heero Yuy pointed the government-issue Colt pistol in the face of Luis Moya, and the young Mexican terrorist stared back at th

This is a fic. So don't sue me.

Ohboy… here we go. This is my first fic, so please, don't be harsh…

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The G-Team in

MEXICO COTRACT 

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Heero Yuy pointed the government-issue Colt pistol in the face of Luis Moya, and the young Mexican terrorist stared back at the black muzzle of the nine-inch silencer screwed onto the threaded barrel of the big .45 caliber gun. Though he was trying to act tough, Moya's lip trembled slightly and his face was dead white. Otherwise his tough guy image held up pretty well.

For his part, Heero was not impressed. He admired toughness–be it physical, mental or spiritual–even in his enemies. But Moya belonged to a crackpot terrorist outfit that called itself the People's Army for the Liberation of Mexico, whose idea of 'fighting for freedom' included shooting police officers in the back, blowing up restaurants with Americans inside them and occasionally kidnapping a U.S. citizen to leach ransom money from the gringo's family.

Moya sure didn't deserve kid glove treatment, and since that was not a specialty of the G-team's leader, Heero didn't feel like wasting any reserves of compassion on the waste of human DNA. He thrust the barrel of the handgun into the youthful insurgent's mouth. The Mexican's dark eyes widened with fear–it's pretty hard to act stoic while sucking on a .45 automatic.

"_Tu hablas Ingles, punjeta? Mi Espanol no es gran, sabe? _We've got some questions for you, Moya. You will answer them or I'll blow your head off your shoulders." Heero mentally congratulated himself for having called the man a _punjeta-_a retard. Duo's lessons on how to be more intimidating–that is, cursing–seemed to be paying off.

"Why do him any favors?" Chang Wufei inquired, leaning over on the hardwood cane he was often forced to use after the Eve Wars (Don't be fooled… even injured, Wufei-san is a warrior. The cane's exterior belies its true nature… a sword is concealed in it). "If this piece of unjust filth is too idiotic to talk for us, we can make an example of him for the next PALM scumbag we get our hands on."

Wufei was bluffing... he had long ago learned to be tactful as well as brave. The G-Team had been in Mexico City for four days, and Moya was still the only 'PALM scumbag' they had been able to find. Time was running out fast, and they couldn't count on finding another terrorist before the People's Army killed Hector and Shelly Arguello.

The Arguellos were young newlyweds from New Mexico. Hector was a second-generation Mexican-American who had brought his bride to Mexico City to visit some relatives on a trip that was supposed to be a sort of extended honeymoon. It had turned into a nightmare when the PALM grabbed the couple and demanded Hector's father one million dollars for release.

Ricardo Arguello was a self-made millionaire. A true American success story, he had risen from the barrios to become president of a nationwide chain of clothing stores–Aeropostale. Arguello had worked his ass of to make a good life for himself and his family. He had the kind of toughness Heero admired and respected. Nobody had handed anything to the guy on a silver platter, he had earned what he worked for and by God he deserved it.

The president of Aeropostale did not like the idea of rewarding a bunch of terrorists for kidnapping his son and daughter-in-law, but he might have paid the ransom if the group didn't already have a rep for returning hostages in pine boxes. He tried all the usual sources for help-the U.S. state department sympathized, the U.S. Embassy agonized, and the Mexican embassy apologized, but none of them did a damn thing to help.

The situation demanded drastic action. Arguello decided to hire a team of professional soldiers to rescue the two captives. He wanted the best in the business, and he got it- The G-team.

The G-Team was made up of four highly-trained young veterans, former colonial freedom fighters that had worked as a team for three years, first as robo pilots during the Eve Wars, then as soldiers of fortune. They had a well-deserved reputation for being the most proficient killers in the solar system…

The best are never cheap, though this was not a problem for Arguello. He'd decided he'd pay the million bucks to the G-Team… if and when they brought back the pair. Heero could distinctly remember their parting words with the rich man, back in Cleveland International Airport.

_"I will never give the money to them… I was told that you are the best. I was unaware that the legendary Gundam Team were mercenaries as well." _The man's eyes gave the four seventeen year-old merc's faces an appreciative glance each. _"I can sleep easier knowing that you are on the job."_

_Damn right, he can._ Heero composedly retracted the pistol from Moya's mouth and wiped the saliva from the silencer, using the punk's shirt. He sure as hell wasn't going to use his own. Moya was securely bound, ankles tied to a chair and his hands cuffed behind the seat's backrest. He could do nothing but stare up at the G-Team's commander.

Staring at Heero was not a fun thing to do. He have been a kid, but he certainly looked the part of a killer. His eyes seemed to twinkle with an inner confidence that suggested he would find a way to get info out of Moya-without much worry as to the damage he might inflict the man. He didn't look like he enjoyed people who messed with him, and it didn't sound like he intended to make any kind of exception just then.

"Talk to us Moya," He insisted. "I'm not a patient man."

"%$#* you!" Moya spat back, glaring up at Heero.

"Well, that's a relief." Wufei said as he jammed the brass head of his cane up under the terrorist's head. "You do speak English. Now that you have proven your familiarity with profanity, you can tell us where Hector and Shelly are."

Luis Moya responded by spitting in the Chinaboy's face. The merc grimaced and savagely whipped the Mexican across the face with the swagger stick.

Moya cried out as the hard brass struck the bridge of his nose, breaking cartilage. Blood oozed from Moya's nostrils and his vision clouded with tears.

"I'd advise you not to do anything like that again." Heero told the gasping dirtbag. "None of us are exactly sane… especially Wufei here. We might just be in a mental ward if we weren't heroes. You don't mean a whole lot to us, so don't try to pull any #@&% on us." Heero again congratulated himself on his cursing at the tied-up guy.

"I am not afraid of death!" His voice was distorted by the blood rushing through his nose and throat. "I will not tell you anything!"

It was a standard rule on the streets of L2 colony that if someone didn't seem to be succumbing to pain, it was necessary to start making threats. Duo Maxwell was a follower of this rule for his entire life, as he had grown up in an alleyway with a group of urchins as his only family and the rules of the street as his guide to life…

"Maybe you've got a high pain threshold, and that's good for you, _amigo_, but what about your girl?" Duo motioned at the cornered prostitute with the point of his NATO-edition pushbutton knife. "I'm sure her skin will peel off nicely." The terrorist flinched.

"No! You have got no reason to…"

"I just wanna see what's underneath!" Duo shouted, gripping onto the woman's wrist. He really had no intention of hurting her. Hell, some of his favorite people were prostitutes, and he understood how people got messed up with drugs. He himself was content with large amounts of alcohol. The ho's only real crime, in his opinion, was consorting with a terrorist.

No, Duo wasn't going to hurt her… but he was counting on Luis Moya not knowing this.

Moya shrugged despite his bonds. "Go ahead. Kill the bitch. She does not matter. I will not tell this little American pig in the tank-top anything!"

"I'm Japanese." Heero corrected. He proceeded to lower the aim of the Colt in his hand, then squeeze the trigger.

A single 185grain semijacketed round crashed into Moya's left shin. Bone and cartilage exploded, the bark of the pistol through its silencer drowned out by scream expressing pain the bullet caused. Moya sobbed in agony as blood rivered out of what remained of his left leg.

His bitch screamed and bolted from the cot, nearly impaling herself on the outstretched knife in Duo's hand. The young minister shoved her back down protectively back onto the cot.

"Jeez, lady," he rasped "calm down before you hurt yourself."

Moya whimpered pathetically, but justifiably. Heero grabbed the terrorist's crop of black hair and tugged his head up to look into his cold, steely blue eyes.

"Listen, scumbag." Heero announced "Either we get answers, or we take you apart, piece by piece…"

"We've got all night." Wufei added, smiling grimly. "You've still got another shin. Then we can start on your knees, your elbows… your hands, too. I'm sure it'll be more fun to watch if we let Trowa do it, of course…"

The slender mercenary unsheathed a large survival knife from his belt. Trowa Barton was a knife enthusiast, to say the least… it didn't matter what kind. He was seldom seen without some kind of short blade at his hip or in his hand. Quatre, the fifth and unofficial member of the current G-Team (he declined to join them on missions due to his morals involving killing, but helped the guys with funding and technology) had once asked the merc about this.

Trowa had replied by simply giving one of his 'death glares'. This meant that the one eye not concealed by his brown hair had turned, as Quatre often put it, cold. Some people said that Trowa had a dead man's eyes.

However, these people had obviously not seen the way his eyes softened when he looked at Catharine Bloom. If one put thought into it, it seemed as though it was after meeting the lovely circus knife-thrower that Trowa had developed his affinity for the things. Hmm…

This particular knife was bladed with a heavy six-inch steel combat edge, razor sharp with a saw tooth back. The black plastic handle contained waterproof matches, fishing sinkers, sewing needles and a special addition of Trowa's own-a one-foot length of wire saw that could and had often served as garrote wire.

"Do you guys remember the guy I handled at Lunar Base?" Trowa suddenly asked his teammates. "He was still alive, so I…" Trowa began moving his knife up and down in a wavy pattern. "sliced the skin off all his fingers. Then I broke each joint and pulled like I was milking a cow…"

"Oh yeah…" Heero pretended to reminisce. The incident had never actually occurred, but Moya didn't know that.

"AAAH! Get this guy away from me!" Moya had obviously taken enough pain to snap all at once in order to avoid more. "They're being held at a farmhouse near Cerritos!" Moya gushed. "There are twelve comrades there with them! Just don't cut my FINGERS!"

"We'd better put a tourniquet on that leg of yours so you don't bleed to death." Heero said once their info was extracted.

"Hmph. You are most fortunate. I would not offer you such mercy." Wufei put his swagger stick down and began hitching up his knee with tape so that he could operate without his sword/cane. "If you prove a reliable guide, Yuy may even let you live.

Trowa cursed silently to himself in French and sheathed his knife again.

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Duo Maxwell drove the battered old ford van along the dirt road. The headlights were off, but Duo had no trouble seeing thanks to the pair of TH70 Nitefinder goggles he wore. The special glasses that were on his head turned pitch night into mere dusk. Wufei Chang sat on the passenger's side, surveying the countryside with infrared binoculars.

Heero Yuy and Trowa Barton were in the back with the still-incapacitated Luis Moya, the van's housing concealing them and the two duffle bags which lay next to Heero.

The butt end of a rifle stuck out of the zipped-up top of one. Moya glanced at it hungrily, wishing he could grab it and kill all four gringos. However, with his hands tied behind his back and what remained of his legs tightly bound, he had little hope of achieving this dream.

"There's the farmhouse." Wufei announced loud enough for all to hear. "It fits the description." Duo brought the car to a stop. Heero began unzipping the duffels and loading up the various tools of war within.

"Okay. Expect guards, some out front, some at the rear." Heero explained. "There'll be a small barn at the back, according to the $%#@bag back here…" Duo nodded approvingly at the phrase used to denote their prisoner. "…and at least two or more in it. The rest of the bastards should be in the house. Of course, you never know when somebody'll move around to take a leak. Hector and Shelly are at the rear of the building, according to Moya, and we'll hit that part last accordingly. We enter the house from all fronts, by the book."

Duo slid an ammo stick into the bottom of his Uzi submachine gun whilst smiling wryly, already feeling the rush of combat in his veins. "Ahh… I feel like Santa Claus… comin' in a house with a bag of goodies." He slung his black demolition backpack over his shoulders. As the team's demo expert, he needed to carry the twenty-five pounds of extra material-which included, but was not limited to: dynamite, C-4, Claymores, remote charges, frag grenades and tripwire activation equipment. "Ho ho ho."

Heero neglected the bomb-toting boy's comment. "Try not to use the Uzis in the house-might hit the hostages." Heero didn't have to explain about the penetrating power of the nine millimeter parabellum rounds the Uzis packed being strong enough to punch through walls.

"What about the barn?" Duo asked eagerly.

Heero shrugged. "-sigh-. Blow it up if you like."

Duo's wolfish grin expanded. "Oh, I like."

Wufei nodded. "If Maxwell has the rear, I will take up sniper position. After all, I am the best shot among our number."

Barton's nearly expressionless face changed into the merest hint at a frown. "That is… debatable." The French and Chinese mercs argued constantly over who was the better marksman between them. "But Chang takes rifle… I will work on sentry removal." Trowa pulled a high-accuracy hunting bow from inside the duffel, along with a quiver of steel arrows.

Heero nodded. "Affirmative. We have our positions… Mission… accepted." Heero said this, not because it was the appropriate thing; he had long since accepted the job, but as a personal good luck charm… all of the G-Team had their own…

Duo smiled to himself in the dark and pulled his black baseball hat down lower on his head. "I am Shinagami… the God of death."

Wufei reflected momentarily on a person… a woman, his wife. _Protect me, Nataku…_ He pulled the hammer of his Winchester .300 magnum rifle.

Trowa merely looked at the knife in his belt a moment, and decided it would be nice to see Catharine again, so he'd have to live.

The G-Team approached the farmhouse, moving in a wide horseshoe pattern. The mercenaries kept low and made use of the dense camouflage, the tall grass and shadows.

As Trowa slithered over the grass like a serpent, he counted three terrorists, each armed with a 9mm Mendoza. He assumed a cross-legged position and kept his head low when he drew the first arrow from its quiver. The arrowhead was smeared with a dark brown substance… it was curare, a poison derived from the bark of certain _genus stychons_ plants in a manner Trowa had learned as a young mercenary.

Heero cradled his Uzi in his arms. The G-Team commander peered at a sentry sitting on the doorstep, a lit cigarette between his lips. He hoped they were all as careless as the soon-to-be-dead man. _Omae o korosu…_

Duo crawled ungracefully to the barn and carefully shuffled to a corner for a better vantage point of the rear. There was a single guard there. He looked jittery. Maxwell vaguely wondered weather he washigh on coke or just nervous. Terrorists are all usually half crazy or simply high-strung.

Chang Wufei assumed a prone stance, the butt of his rifle braced in its familiar niche in his shoulder. After his wounding at the hands of none other than Heero Yuy, Wufei had become symbiotic to a leg brace that enabled him to walk normally-though extended use of it while moving his left leg could lead to pain, so he often used a swagger stick that concealed a sword (I'm sorry for throwing that into the mix and messing with Endless Waltz. I just need someone to be sniper while Trowa is out slitting throats- and since we need Heero as our all-rounder and Duo as our boom-boom boy, we have to let Chang-san take up the slack. And since I know it'd take some doing to get Wufei to take up the Way of the Gun- _sniperjutsu_, if you will, I busted up his knee. So, sorry. But at least he's good at it!). In his injury, he'd found that he could no longer wield a blade properly for a very long time, and so had taken up shooting at Heero's behest. He seemed to have a knack for it… though he did feel dirty on occasion about taking out opponents that could not see him.

He clenched the Winchester in his hand tighter, holding the scope steady as he surveyed the target area. Shifting his gaze to the interior of the kitchen window, he made sure to accustom his eyesight to the greenish-yellow of the Starlite nightscope. Despite the discoloration, Wufei still recognized Hector and Shelly Arguello through the thin glass panes of the window.

Naturally, they had suffered some physical abuse. Terrorists only ever treat hostages well if they plan to parade them before a camera. Hector's face was badly bruised on the left side, one eye swollen shut. Shelly sat next to her husband, clutching the remains of her torn shirt to her body.

_Those bastards raped her…_ Wufei realized. He wasn't overly surprised, but it still increased his fury… though he had as a boy learned to control his anger and focus it against his enemies._ I will avenge that woman… Nataku will assist me._

Chang Wufei turned his attention, and his weapon, to the terrorist maggot within the room. He was toying with a cheap-looking revolver._ Now you die…_ the fierce Long Clan warrior fixed the scope on the PALM kidnapper's head…

Trowa Barton eyed his luminous Timex Indiglo watch. Three minutes had passed since they had snuck up on the farm. Everyone should be in position. The show was about to begin.

The young killer notched his bow to its string tightly. After careful aiming, he released the arrow.

The missile sliced through air and slammed into the chest of a terrorist sentry stationed in front of the house. The arrow struck left of the sternum and pierced through the heart. As his vessels contracted rapidly from the shock of their pumping being cut off so abruptly, the guy tried to scream. It was to no avail. The curare rapidly took effect, paralyzing muscles. He fell and died without uttering a sound.

Heero assumed a kneeling stance, bracing his Colt .45 in both hands in a 'Weaver' grip. The sentry plopped down on the front stoop gasped in surprise an instant before he felt the first bullet smash into his breastbone. The second expertly fired slug punched directly through his throat. His thyroid cartilage burst and his vertebrae popped apart as the hot lead projectile bored an exit wound through the back of his neck. The man half-turned and slumped dead.

Duo considered attaching a foot-long silencer to his Uzi's threaded barrel, but decided against it. The Uzi, despite its venerable age, is still one of the finest military small arms ever. Still, a silencer hampers the accuracy of the submachine gun and doesn't mask the sound of its powerful ammo as well as it could. The last thing he needed was for a stray shot to hit a hostage.

"_Miguel! Como esta?"_ The voice was loud enough to quicken Maxwell's pulse and send him sweating cold. Hinges creaked and two pairs of footsteps could be heard exiting the barn door. It was too close for comfort. They had obviously noticed that the guard he'd been watching was hyper and come in investigate. Duo hoped that the rest of the G-Team was ready for a little noise, because he was about to make a lot of it.

The youthful Deathgod stepped from behind his corner of the barn and opened fire. Uzi slugs hammered the terrorists mercilessly. One man's spine snapped in two from the salvo of shots. Another PALM flunky got two in the face. Bullets split his cheekbone and cranium apart.

The third scumbag ducked and returned fire with his Mendoza chatterbox. Duo barely had time to roll behind a stack of empty milk tanks to take the heat for him. Feeling he had no time for peek-a-boo with the Mexican rebel, he reached into his black bag and extracted an M-26 hand grenade from a zipper pocket, pulling the pin and tossing it over the tanks in one fluid movement.

"Anybody who meets me…" He said over the roar of subgun fire "…has got a date with his maker."

The sound of the grenade going off was not truly a loud thing. It was more of a shocking thing. In fact, most grenades simply sound like a sharp, noisy fart. This one was no different. It made its noise and then died. The only signs it had ever existed were the plume of smoke rising into the dark sky and the severed leg that nearly hit Duo in the face as it flew away from the site of the miniature hell.

"So long, _compadre_."

A sudden noise drew the ex-Gundam pilot's attention away from the burnt, dusty crater he had just made. He stared up at the barn's hayloft window… The twin muzzles of a double-barreled shotgun stared back at him.

"Oh, sh…" he raised his Uzi and fired the last three rounds he had at the source of danger. Luckily for our friend, one hit home and saved him before the shotgunner could pump the trigger and hit him. "..it" He had hardly even thought about aiming and shooting, but it was a relief he had. He sighed outward in relief. "Whoo. Close one…"

As soon as Wufei Chang heard the first shots, he had sprung into action and fired his Winchester rifle, the recoil pressing the Walnut shoulder-butt of the gun into his shoulder. The rifle's booming report sounded akin to the announcement of the apocalypse.

For the terrorist guarding the prisoners, the announcement was true. A powerful Magnum round smashed his head up like a melon. The back of this melon hit the reverse wall and painted it gray and red with his head's innards. The Arguellos watched in astonishment as the man folded over, dropping his poor-quality pistol.

Recocking the hammer, Wufei jogged towards the house and aimed a flying kick-careful to use his right leg-through a window.

As he entered the house in true Martial Artist style (yeah, that's how all of us get in our homes, you know…), he noticed the woman scooping up the dead guard's revolver and leveling it at him. "Do not shoot. I'm here to rescue you. If you fire on me I will be forced to act accordingly, woman. I want you to not fire that gun unless sure it is necessary. If you kill one of my partners, I will slay you."

Trowa Barton slammed the front door open with a kick, gripping his Uzi in his left fist and his Colt semi in the other. He ducked to the side just in time to avoid a twelve-gauge shotgun blast. Wood was chewed from the doorframe by the shrapnel slugs. Trowa poked the short barrel of his Uzi around the edge of the door and cut loose, aiming high, truly more concerned about keeping his terrorist enemies busy than hitting them. Surely, the circus star didn't care for the health of the People's Army bastards, but he had no interest in hitting their captives either. Once he was sure he'd gotten the terrorists to duck for cover, he slid into the hall on his belly and waited. Once the two men who had been shooting at him emerged, he hailed them both with three shots from his smaller pistol.

In a close call, a terrorist that had managed to sneak up behind Trowa (like he'd let that happen…) with a Largo pistol was plugged by a shot to the temple from Heero Yuy. Heero stood beside Trowa and they began progressing carefully down the hall, the commander in the lead.

A closet door opened and slammed Heero full in the front. He recoiled in pain, but recovered soon enough to dodge flashing steel-a man with a large jungle knife had popped out of the closet, obviously having had hidden there at the first sign of trouble.

The machete barely missed Heero's head on the second swipe, actually cleaving off a bit of his brown hair. Heero quickly punched the knife toting criminal in the throat, stunning him long enough for Heero to grab the man's head and shove it forcefully into a lifted knee, jamming the top of the PALM goon's nasal bone construct up into his brain. This killed him instantly.

"The last one?" Trowa asked aloud as Heero picked up his pistol, which he had dropped in the scuffle.

Heero held up a hand for silence. Even if this was the case, he had no desire to get his head blown off by Hector or Shelly if they had gotten a gun from a dead PALM member. After waiting a ten-count, he called out to the hostages.

"Hector, Shelly? Are you alright?!" _One million bucks… please don't let them be dead…_

"We're fine!" Hector's voice replied. "They dead?"

"We're friends of your father." Heero said, entering the room to see Wufei placidly surveying the outside and the two ex-prisoners standing up, Shelly hanging off her husband's arm. She seemed to be holding up better than he-women in these situations often did.

"We will supply the local _federales_ with an anonymous phone call telling them to pick up the trash…" Heero gestured to their surroundings "… but now we must get you home."

"Oh God yes!" Shelly smiled. Hector smiled too. Soon, even Heero smiled.

"Mission… complete."

Contract End 

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So, whaddaya think? My first time doing something like this… was it that bad? Be sure to tell me if you want to see my crap off this site. -ShinagamiWing


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